


Cries Like Dead Letters

by FayJay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-04
Updated: 2009-05-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 08:58:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FayJay/pseuds/FayJay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 4.16, Castiel suffers a crisis of conscience. Anna knows a lot about how that feels.</p><p>Author's Note:<br/>The title is taken from <a href="http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poem/1044.html">this sonnet</a> by GM Hopkins. Hopkins was a Jesuit priest whose earlier poems are exquisite, joyous little explosions of love and Faith, seeing God all around him, expressed in the light on a kingfisher's wing and the movement of a hawk in flight. But as a priest, he was sent to work in some truly dark and desperate places, and gradually lost - if not his faith that there was a God, at least his sense of connection with God. The terrible sonnets of his later life are about this desperate, urgent reaching out to a God who no longer responds. Castiel's present situation puts me in mind of Hopkins at this point in his life - thus the title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cries Like Dead Letters

She finds Castiel in Rome, in the Vatican, standing in front of Michelangelo's statue of the Pieta. He stands up a little straighter when she arrives, but does not look over his shoulder or otherwise acknowledge her presence. Anna watches him, and thinks about what a good soldier he has always been. Diligent. Obedient. Trusting. Faithful – always that. Always filled with faith. It had frustrated her, as she began to feel the first icy tendrils of doubt herself, to see how wholly he had given himself over to their Father. Now she pities him, remembering vividly how it felt when certainty and security began to crumble. The terrible isolation and emptiness.

“It was all for nothing,” he says hoarsely, after a very long moment, looking at the marble faces, at the eloquent curves and angles evoking pain and love and loss and pity out of unyielding stone. Castiel's brow is furrowed and his mouth is twisted into a small, unhappy line. “I let Dean Winchester – I _made_ Dean Winchester walk into that room. I made him look into the darkness of his soul. I gave him to Alastair.” His hands clench into fists, white-knuckled. “I have been a fool.”

And he did, of course. He has. She does not try to deny it. Instead she closes her fingers tightly over his shoulder, feeling the texture of the fabric shift under her fingertips, feeling the body of his vessel warm and hard and breakable beneath. She considers.

“Uriel fooled everyone,” she says at last, slowly. It breaks her heart, a little, the way Castiel moves his head and lifts pained blue eyes to meet her gaze. Oh, it is never easy, this kind of growth. She recalls it all too well.

“I did terrible harm to Dean,” he says, and she is almost surprised to see how important this genuinely is to Castiel. How earnestly he has taken to heart the charge to guide and protect Dean Winchester. Anna smiles a little, in spite of herself, thinking of Dean; and then her smile falters and fades away as her memory brings her the sound of Alastair's flesh being tortured, and the knowledge that each blow, each word, was tearing another piece out of Dean's damaged soul.

“He will recover,” she says, but both of them know it is a platitude. He may not. There are fault lines running through Dean, despite his kind heart and his protective streak. Because of them. Brittle places where a little ruthless pressure, a few twisted truths wielded with precision could wreak tremendous damage. Nobody on Earth or in Hell knows how to use such weaknesses better than Alastair, and yet Castiel still sent Dean in there and told him to torture another human being in God's name. It was, in truth, a terrible thing to ask of the man, and Castiel should have known better than to go along with it. He _did_ know better, and this is what frustrates her: that he refuses to trust his own judgment, refuses to listen to his own conscience. That he is such a good little soldier.

She does not say “I told you so”, but the words still hang in the air between them.

“Walk with me,” she says instead, and she closes her fingers around his hand, wondering whether he will allow the intimacy. She understands his revulsion perfectly, of course, because she _is_ beyond the pale. She is an offense to everything he believes. She can still remember how it felt to be so sure of the moral high ground. How it felt to have the moral high ground dissolve beneath her feet.

Castiel's borrowed fingers are warm against her own, and he follows meekly enough, almost gratefully, as she leads him out into the sunlight and the noise and the dirty air. Into the world.

* * * 

“I do not understand how the Lord can tolerate it,” says Castiel softly, after a long silence. They are sitting on adjacent sides of a square wrought iron table under a colourful canvas umbrella, looking out over a bustling square. Anna watches a small girl with grey eyes and brown skin licking solemnly at an ice cream as it melts over her pudgy fingers, and she smiles. Castiel stares at the table, looking into the past. Anna has no idea how to comfort him, and she is not even sure whether she really wants to. He looks up at her, his head tilted slightly to one side, and she recognises the fierce intensity of his gaze. “How can God have allowed Uriel to murder the faithful? Why would He spare the fallen, and let the faithful die? Unless...”

In spite of herself, Anna feels pity uncurling inside her. “Perhaps He has a plan. Perhaps there _is_ a reason. Some mystical, ineffable reason beyond our ken.” She watches Castiel's face light up for a moment. But only a moment.

“You do not believe that,” he says, his mouth twisting.

She sighs. “No. No, I don't. But – I don't actually _know_, Cas. None of us know. Only the ones who have seen the face of God.” She pulls a face. “If they truly have.”

They sit quietly together for a space of time, and both of them watch the humans passing by: men and women with sharply cut hair and sharply tailored suits, talking into sharply designed cell phones as they stride somewhere important; young couples strolling hand-in-hand, whispering or laughing or taking photographs of pigeons; harried mothers pushing small children in strollers. The oblivious masses whom Uriel so despised. Anna watches them surge past, happy and sad, young and old, men and women, and she misses her human parents with a sudden surge of loss that startles her.

“They aren't monkeys,” says Castiel softly, frowning, and Anna smiles.

“No, they aren't Monkeys are all very well, but they don't write symphonies or brew coffee.” She drums her fingers on the tabletop and then picks up the menu, idly, and glances through it. Her smile widens, and she raises a hand in summons. The waiter, who would have sworn that nobody was seated at the corner table, suddenly realises he has a customer, and a beautiful one at that, and scurries over to take her order, all dimples and wide white smiles.

“A double espresso and a slice of chocolate cake, please,” she says, in flawless Italian. Castiel looks surprised – not at her mastery of any of the human tongues, she knows, but rather at her sudden impulse. She meets his eyes for a moment, and then looks up at the waiter. “No, make that two espressos, if you'd be so kind. Thank you.”

The waiter looks a little dazed by the brilliance of her smile. He is young, and handsome, and she watches the way his trousers cling to his ass with an appreciative glint in her eye as he hurries away with her order.

“You do not need to eat or drink,” says Castiel, frowning again. “Not now. You are not mortal.”

Anna shrugs. “Free will, Cas. I don't do things only because I _need_ to do them. Sometimes I do things simply because I want to. Because they feel good.” She looks down at her hands, flexing her fingers and watching familiar skin stretch over muscles and bones. “These bodies are made for pleasure as well as pain.”

“Oh.” It is very clear from his expression that he does not understand, and on a whim she captures his hand in her own, and begins to trace slow patterns onto his skin with her short fingernails. Castiel watches her with his head tilted slightly, and an expression of polite confusion on his face. After a little while he shivers, and the confusion gives way to surprise, and the beginnings of something else.

Anna is smiling broadly when the waiter arrives with the coffee and cake, but Castiel looks slightly shaken.

“Thank you,” she says, directing a flirtatious look through her eyelashes at the young Italian as he unburdens his tray. He has a dimple in his left cheek when he smiles, and eyes as dark as the espresso. She watches him walk away, and winks at him when he steals a glance back over his shoulder. Castiel stares from her to the waiter and back again, blinking. “Coffee,” she says, dropping two sugar cubes into her cup and stirring them until they dissolve. She raises the tiny cup from its tiny saucer and looks pointedly at Castiel. He glances down at his own cup, and then at her, and frowns, and for a moment she thinks he will refuse. But instead he sighs, picks the cup up carefully with both hands, and copies her movements, swallowing down a bitter, scalding mouthful. His brows draw together and his nostrils flare. Anna watches him. “What do you think?” she asks.

“It is very – intense,” he says, licking his lips, and he takes another tentative sip. He looks at her helplessly. “I have nothing to compare this to.” She watches him in silence, and he bites his lip and furrows his brow and tries to please her, and she recognises the old habit of obedience to her commands. “It is – hot, and – bitter? It hurt my tongue.” He glances to one side, trying to trace the effects on his tastebuds and his body. “My vessel's pulse is quickening, I think.”

Anna's mouth curves at that. “I think this is probably my cue to say something like: 'I like my coffee like I like my men: hot, strong and sweet.'” Castiel blinks. “And as for you – well. You might prefer them bitter. Or not.” Her mouth twitches. “But you should try the chocolate cake, and enjoy the contrast.”

“Anna, this is a waste of time. I have no need of such sustenance.” He looks honestly puzzled.

“You don't listen very well, do you? It isn't always about need, Cas. Sometimes it's just about want. Or even whim.” She takes up the glinting fork and neatly cuts away the tip of the wedge of cake. It is soft and moist and crumbling, a brown almost as dark as espresso topped with a thick layer of lighter, creamier frosting. It looks delicious. She lifts the piece to her mouth and smiles as the complex combination of flavours and textures begin to dissolve on her tongue. She has always liked chocolate cake. Anna can remember years and years of bake sales and coffee mornings at her father's church, can remember helping her mother – the woman she spent all those long (fleeting!) years thinking was her mother – mix chocolate chips into cookie dough, and frost cupcakes, can remember the delight of licking the sticky mixing bowls clean afterwards. She finds that her senses are now inextricably linked in with memories, and that her very thought processes are tied in to physical sensations. It's very good cake, this, but it isn't as good as her mother's.

She glances up at Castiel, sitting hunched forward in his disheveled vessel, his hair sticking out at startled angles and his tie hanging loose against his chest. He looks small, and lost, and unhappy. “Here,” she says, carving another chunk out of the cake and passing him the fork.

“But...” he begins, and then his shoulders sag slightly and he makes a helpless, frustrated little gesture with his hands. “Oh, very well,” Castiel says, accepting the fork and lifting it to his lips.

She laughs out loud at the emotions that dart across his face in quick succession, and at the way that, after a moment, his eyelids flutter closed and his brows lift up towards his hairline. He spends a very long time savouring that single, reluctant mouthful of sweetness, his face astonished, and afterwards he looks thoughtful. Anna snags the fork from his unresisting fingers and takes another piece for herself, her mouth still curling at the corners. He licks his lips, chasing the last traces of sweetness from his own skin, and his eyes slide down to the plate with an expression of unmistakable covetousness.

“You want to protect Dean Winchester, and guide him on his path – but you don't understand the first thing about him, Castiel. You don't know what it means to be human. To be defined by the confines of your physical form, by these limited senses, by the knowledge of your own mortality. To be shaped and limited by the people who love you. Loyalty. Forgiveness. Love. Chocolate cake. Sex.”

“I am loyal,” Castiel says, after a moment. His voice is tentative. She shakes her head, watching him narrowly.

“No, Cas. You're obedient. There's a difference. Uriel was not obedient, but he was loyal. Just – not to God or to the Garrison.” She shakes her head. “Dean Winchester was obedient to his father, but he is absolutely loyal to his brother. Which may be the death of us all, or the saving of us all. But you just don't _get_ that, do you?”

For a moment she thinks he will protest, but he looks down at his hands instead, and then his gaze darts over to the chocolate cake for a long, lingering moment. He looks out at the square, staring blindly at the humans passing by, and when he finally speaks his voice is very quiet. “I _want_ to understand.”

“Why?” He looks back at her, his head tilted a little, confused. “So you can manipulate him better?”

Castiel flinches. He looks almost hurt. “No!” he says, but he sounds uncertain. “That isn't – I – he has a destiny.”

Anna makes a small, disgusted noise in the back of her throat. “Fuck destiny,” she says.

Now he looks both shocked and offended, and she more than half expects him to vanish, or at least rise huffily from the table and sweep off into the crowd. But he doesn't. “How can you do that?” he asks, searching her face as if he can hope to find the answer there. “How can you reject our Father? He made us. How can you betray Him?”

“Because He's betrayed us, Cas.” she says, feeling anger bubbling up inside. “And them.” She nods at the people in the square. “He let Uriel corrupt your garrison, let all those loyal little soldiers die alone.” She leans across the table and fixes her eyes on his, her voice suddenly fierce. “He would have let you die alone, faithful to the last. He doesn't _care_, Cas.” He flinches again, and opens his mouth as if to protest, but no words come. She is relentless. “You _know_ this. This is why you've considered disobedience. Because a God who lets Dean Winchester suffer all the tortures of Hell for decade after decade purely because he _loved his little brother_, a God who has left billions of others still writhing there in torment, a God who allows the forces of Hell to pray on innocent men and women every day, who could play mind games with Job, who would punish the innocent along with the guilty, a God who knows nothing of compassion – that kind of God isn't worth following. He doesn't give a shit about humans, Cas. And they're His favourites. He _definitely_ doesn't give a shit about angels.” Castiel closes his eyes, his expression pained, but she doesn't stop. “And if He doesn't care, then even if He _does_ have a plan, even if He does have a purpose – it sucks. And He doesn't deserve your obedience _or_ your loyalty.” She looks at Castiel's downturned face, and then looks out past the rainbow-striped canvas of the umbrella, catching a glimpse of blue sky between buildings. “So fuck Him, if He still exists.”

“Anna!”

“I mean it. And you should too, Cas. You, of all people.”

He is trembling, but he does not tell her she is wrong. Anna is suddenly glad that he chose this particular vessel - which is very shallow, but she's not one to ignore her body's reactions, and hormones are hormones. Castiel's vessel may not be built like a Greek god, but he's still pretty easy on the eyes. She has known Castiel a very long time, with all his strengths and weaknesses, and there is something oddly stirring about watching him grapple with these appalling ideas, and seeing him so vulnerable. She meets his distressed gaze for a long moment, and then, giving in to another impulse, she hooks one hand around the back of his neck, grabs his tie with the other one and pulls him forward into a kiss.

He is rigid with astonishment as she kisses the corner of his vessel's mouth, as she licks his lower lip, and wriggles her tongue inside. She feels him jump underneath her, feels him trying to draw a breath, perhaps to protest, even as his tongue tries to shrink away from the contact - but in this too she is relentless, and after a long moment he begins, hesitantly, clumsily, to kiss her back. Anna smiles against his face when one hand closes uncertainly around her hip, another on her arm, and she angles her face a little more for better access. He's no Dean Winchester, to be sure, but there's something very disarming about the earnestness and intensity with which Castiel kisses her, the way he surrenders himself up to the moment - like he's struggling to learn a whole new language in a few seconds, and each new discovery is thrilling him to the core. Like there's some warm, wet epiphany in this simple tangle of tongues. And Anna _knows_ Castiel in a way that she can never know Dean Winchester, or any other man she has kissed, or fucked. There is an intimacy to this far beyond the simple physical act, and suddenly she wonders whether she is doing something terribly foolish. Whether she is prepared for the consequences of this kiss. Suddenly she can see a possible future unfolding before her, and she is not at all sure that it is a future she is ready for.

She releases her hold on his neck and pulls away, feeling his tie slide gently through her fingers as she leans back into her own space. He sways slightly, following her, and then looks dazed and a little indignant. It would be difficult to look any more dishevelled than he already does, but his chapped lips are suddenly red, his blue eyes dark as the fathomless depths of the ocean, and his chest is rising and falling as though he has just run a race. It's a good look for him, she thinks – and clamps down on the thought, hard. It will not do to go making this into something it cannot, something it should not be. She does not want to start her own rebel garrison, and she does not want an immortal spouse either. It will not do to let him fixate on her. She does not have all the answers, after all; she only knows most of the questions.

“Don't...” he says, and then closes his mouth before he can finish that thought. He looks at her, and blushes, and looks away. “Why did you do that?” he asks, after a long moment. His voice is uneven.

She licks her lips reflexively, and then reaches into her pocket for a pack of cigarettes and tips one into her palm with a practiced movement. “Because I wanted to, Cas,” she says, all careless nonchalence. He is watching her now with a desperate intensity that could be dangerous for them both. She does not want to be his commander again. She does not want a good little soldier of her own. “It isn't always about need. Aren't you listening to any of this? And because – well. You should understand what it means to be human, Cas. At least a little. Because you've got to learn to live a little, if you want to _ understand _ Dean Winchester.” And that's even true.

She pushes the plate with the half-eaten chocolate cake towards him, watching his face, and she doesn't miss the way his tongue darts out for just a moment, or the quick, stifled movement as his hand twitches towards the plate.

She watches the redness spread over his cheeks then, and he glances up at her, and then looks away and bites his lip. “I don't know what you mean,” he says.

She cocks her head, feeling herself on firmer ground. Anna has always been a better strategist than Castiel, and she manouvers ruthlessly, without thinking. “Oh, I think you do. I saw the way you looked at him, Castiel. And at me, when I was with him. I think you want to _understand_ Dean Winchester very well indeed.” She picks up her coffee cup and downs the remnants of the espresso. “Not that I can blame you. He is very sweet, and strong, and bitter too. And broken, poor child.”

Castiel is starting to look angry now, and that's good. That feels safer. Anna has surprised herself, and she wants a little time to regroup, and attack has always been her favourite defence. She lights the cigarette and takes a long drag on it, closing her eyes for a moment as the smoke fills her lungs. When she speaks again, her voice is hard, and she is quietly satisfied that she has distracted his attention away from her now, away from anything that they might become to one another. She isn't ready for that. She needs time to think. “He needs you to help him, Castiel, not use him. He isn't a monkey, and he isn't a tool. He is a human being, with all the wonder and fragility which that entails. Maybe God is watching, maybe God has a plan – I don't know. At this point, pretty much, I also don't care. But we know for damn sure that Lucifer exists, and Lilith. We know that they have plans. And Dean Winchester and his brother Sam are slap bang in the middle of the whole stinking mess, doing their best.” She looks at him narrowly. “You've got to make your mind up, Cas. Whose side are you on? Are you going to choose blind obedience to our Father? Or loyalty to the humans who need you?” She glances out at the bustling square. “To Dean Winchester?”

When she looks back, Anna is supremely unsurprised to find that Castiel has gone. It is a relief. And also a little disappointing.

She smokes the cigarette quietly, looking out over the square and thinking hard about what she has done here. Anna thinks about need, and about want, and about control. She remembers the urgency and sweetness of Castiel's mouth on hers, and the way he had blushed. She wonders, with some amusement, whether his vessel was aroused. Whether he _ever_ lets it get aroused. And then it isn't funny at all, because she has a sudden vivid image of having him naked underneath her, of pulling him down to her level, of watching him cross line after line and unmake himself. Of having all that power under her control again. Of having someone at her back. Of not being alone.

When she has finished the cigarette she drops it on the ground and grinds it underfoot. And then she goes after him, and hopes she is not already too late.

 

FINIS


End file.
